


Waylaid

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3130193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan tries to walk out on a naked Telemachus Rhade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waylaid

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

By the time he comes out of the shower, the room’s the same as he left it, right down to the boots placed neatly by the front door and the naked man sprawled in his bed. It’s enough to make Dylan hesitate, even though he’s seen it all before, with his fingers in the middle of pulling down the cuffs of his dress uniform. Telemachus Rhade, more than any other Nietzschean, any other man, any other creature in this universe, has a way of making Dylan Hunt stop in his tracks. 

Another Rhade had that hold over Dylan once, and he once swear he’d never fall for it again. But Gaheris never gave as much as Telemachus has, and that brick wall crumbled a long time ago. Maybe Dylan’s just meant to be tied to a Rhade one way or another, and even the illustrious Captain Hunt can’t escape the universe’s will forever. 

He meant to leave as soon as he left the washroom. Head straight for the conference room and greet their newest potential allies. But now he eyes the sleek expanse of Telemachus’ exposed back, the elegant dip of his spine and the creamy curves of his hips, the top of his round ass disappearing under the white sheets. His strong biceps are spread across the mattress, face turned in the pillows, eyes wistfully closed as he chases sleep. Dylan was going to take this meeting alone, because after the nightmare they spent the last three days in on a no-sleep suicide mission, his crew deserves the rest. But even in sleep, Telemachus’ allure claws at Dylan’s sides, and he finds himself headed for the bed, common sense be damned. 

It’s going to be harder to leave this room than he thought. The trouble with giving Telemachus, a normally straight-laced officer out of bed at dawn and into his uniform before Dylan can collect his underwear, a day off, is that it leaves him without that uniform, and ten times harder to resist. His exposed skin is such a special treat, from the tip of his ass right up to the bases of his bone blades. Dylan finds himself perching delicately on the edge of the bed, trying not to make any noise at all, and he reaches out for his lover’s dark hair. 

He pets through the silky strands longer than he means to, finds himself stroking down to Telemachus’ chiseled cheek, touching everywhere. He’s _gorgeous_ , and the raw scent of him, still ripe with the stench of last night’s sex, fills Dylan’s head and paws at his stomach. If he’s not careful, he’ll be hard throughout that conference. Dylan has a weakness for interesting, willful women, but powerful men can leave him aching. It’s hard to find partners that can keep up with his strength. But he can slam Telemachus into the wall or floor or the edge of furniture with all his heavy-gravity might and barely leave a bruise, then get it back in spades. 

It’s tempting to slip inside Telemachus right now, take advantage of his lowered defenses, and pound him awake with another round hard enough to make the whole deck shake. Dylan’s fingers trace back to Telemachus’ hair and nearly fist there; he _wants_ to stay. He deserves that rest just as much as the others, although he would hardly use a day off to sleep. 

He’s just about to draw his hands away when Telemachus’ eyes slit open, gleaming up through the harsh light of the captain’s quarters to stare Dylan right down. Dylan dons a fond smile for a greeting, and Telemachus mirrors it in a heartbeat. He murmurs in a deep, low rumble of a sleep-addled voice, “Why did you wake me if you wanted to try and sneak out?”

Dylan could say that he hardly meant to wake Telemachus up, but he knows his lover better than that and calls the bluff. “You were already awake. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Telemachus rolls his eyes, then shifts and stretches out his arms, bone blades barely missing Dylan’s knees. He looks particularly scrumptious when his muscles tense, rippling below his creamy skin: an enticing show of power. The sweat of last night’s cooled, but it would be easy enough to work him up to it again, and for moment, Dylan’s swamped in the temptation. 

Then Telemachus sighs, “Why can’t you send Beka?” The way he tilts his head, still luxuriously left in the pillow but staring up in challenge, makes it an open invitation. He wants Dylan to stay. He must want the same thing Dylan does, because his eyes flicker down when Dylan answers, resting, instead, on Dylan’s crotch, just beneath them hem off the usual formal uniform jacket.

“Obviously, you’re not familiar with how Beka handles political meetings.” 

Telemachus grins in a small accession. She’s a brilliant pilot and captain, yes, but she’s not exactly the most polite ambassador he’s ever had. Besides, he’s the ranking captain on this ship, and he should go. 

But not without kissing his handsome boytoy goodbye, and he bends to peck Telemachus’ forehead, lingering longer than he means to. When he does pull back, he promises quietly, “I’ll be back soon.” 

Telemachus has a languid smirk on his face. Dylan grins back, but he stills moves away, climbing off the mattress. He takes a good two steps towards the door before Telemachus’ leg comes shooting out of nowhere, slamming against Dylan’s knees. Dylan reels forward, ready to dive into a barrel roll, but a hand clenches in the back of his jacket, jerking him towards the bed. He switches to a spin, yanking himself out of Telemachus’ grip, but that just brings them face to face, and Telemachus latches onto Dylan’s bicep. He jerks Dylan down towards the bed, and Dylan curves his shoulder just in time to go rolling under Telemachus’ weight rather than being pushed over the other side of the bed. Before he can get up again, Telemachus has straddled his waist, pinning him down, and shoves him by the arms against the mattress. 

Breathing heavily, Dylan takes a second to lie where he is, collecting himself. Telemachus stares down at him with a wild fire in those brown eyes. Dylan reaches up to grab onto Telemachus’ sides, but by then, it’s already too late. 

Telemachus is still very naked, but now sitting on Dylan’s lap, his long, thick cock nestled right against the hardening outline of Dylan’s. The way Telemachus’ thighs clench around Dylan’s hips makes it very clear that he won’t be giving up without another fight, and then Telemachus is leaning down, bringing his mouth to Dylan’s. 

He bites before he kisses, pulling Dylan’s bottom lip in his teeth and slipping a fervent tongue into Dylan’s mouth, claiming him with a feral growl. Dylan wraps one hand around Telemachus’ waist, the other reaching to fist in Telemachus’ hair, trying to wrench him back, but hair-pulling isn’t a very good deterrent. Telemachus only kisses harder, grinds his hips harder, until Dylan has to shove him off with enough force to send a weaker man flying across the room. 

Telemachus merely goes as far as sitting, and his crotch keeps grinding into Dylan’s. He leans over Dylan, propped on his elbows, and hisses, “Stay.”

“Nietzscheans,” Dylan snorts. “Don’t you people ever get tired?”

Telemachus’ smirk lights his eyes, and he has the nerve to growl, “Maybe that’s why you prefer bedding us.”

Dylan’s eyebrows rise. “I never said I did.”

Telemachus’ grin doesn’t fade. He only leans in the rest of the way, flattening their mouths back together. He kisses like he fucks, powerful and passionate and _so_ tempting. Dylan doesn’t have the strength of will to fight it again and instead finds himself tugging Telemachus closer and plotting how to roll them over again to regain the upper hand. 

When Telemachus finally breaks the kiss to trail lazy, affectionate bites down Dylan’s chin, Dylan sighs, “Andromeda, disengage privacy mode.” His quarters are always locked just for this reason, and while Telemachus nips and sucks at Dylan’s neck, grinding fiercely into Dylan’s crotch, he orders, “Have Beka meet the delegates. Tell her I’m... busy.”

His ship’s smooth voice answers, “ _Acknowledged._ ” There’s no judgment in it.

So Dylan moans, “Reengage privacy mode.” He pulls Telemachus back by the hair, giving enough room to kiss him again before rolling them both over.


End file.
